by Sarah Hegger
Then they had gone to Bahir. Beaten him and tied him up, then stripped him for all to see. And even when the evidence of their error was plain before them, even then the villagers did not relent. Frustrated now and forced to face they were wrong, they turned that fury on Bahir.
Her, they did not touch. A few had murmured how she was Sir Henry’s wench and not to be touched. She supposed some part of her was grateful, but she was also guilt-ridden that the anger the villagers refused to demonstrate on her had merely moved to Newt and then Bahir.
“It is not good.” Unmindful of the mud and blood, Lady Elizabeth knelt beside Newt. She glanced up and nodded to Alya. “You did good to stop the bleeding. We will need to get him up and out of the mud. Get these wounds cleaned, with fire if necessary, and sew them up.”
Alya wriggled for Henry to free her, but his arms merely tightened about her. “Be still,” he whispered. “Later you can be wroth with me, but for now let me hold you.”
Men moved before the fire, pulling unburned items out of the path. Steady rain fell, dousing some of the flames and turning the ground to a boggy mud bath.
Standing in Henry’s arms, Alya watched as if she stood on the far side of the world. The fire hissed and sputtered along the eastern side of the building, angry its ravenous path had been halted.
This must be how it felt to have nothing. To lose everything you owned. The fire had taken her wealth, the last vestige of her father. She had neither country, nor family and now with the flames having done their damage, she had no home. In that blaze had also gone the closest thing to a friend she’d had since she arrived. The man holding her so close was not hers either. In name, they stood as a couple, but she had never felt further from him than she did then. While chaos reigned about them, and he comforted her for her loss, she felt utterly and completely alone. She felt nothing.
Chapter 33
Between Newt, Bahir and the fire, Henry did not sleep that evening. Even with the rain the flames took hours to douse and even now the men watched for live embers. So much of Chester’s hard work gone in a matter of hours.
Standing beside Henry as the sun rose the next morning, Chester stared. The stone walls had survived and stood, charred black like lone gravestones amidst the rubble. Men picked through the rubble for anything salvageable.
“Well,” Chester said. “This is not good.”
It almost made Henry laugh. “It was a bad night.”
“Aye.” Chester motioned the stables that had survived the fire. “How fare your lady and her friends?”
“My lady lives.” Somewhere inside the walking, talking shell was Alya. When the shock wore off she would be better. “But Bahir and Newt fare badly. Lady Elizabeth does what she can but…” Like a boot to his chest ground the fear for Newt. Reckless, impulsive, irreverent, and vigorous, it did not seem possible that Newt now fought for his life. His friend. His brother in arms who had stood with him through the horror of the pilgrimage. The man who had refused to let him die a slave.
“This is a bad business, Sir Henry.” Chester picked up a broken piece of wood and hefted it in his palm. “A bad, bad business.”
Henry nodded because he had no words. All through the endless night his anger had sparked beneath his skin. In a dull, lifeless voice, Alya had told them what had happened. Even Sir James, with his son killed on pilgrimage by men who looked like Bahir, had exclaimed over the rank injustice of last night.
The people who had done this were people Henry had known his entire life. Some of those men had drunk and laughed with him in Harrow’s inn. Men he had hunted with, shared their joys and sorrows, the same men who had welcomed him home with tears.
“We are sure it’s out now.” Sir James strode toward them. Soot-stained and dirty, he had worked as hard as any man this night. “I have organized the men into shifts. So some may rest while the others clear away the damage.”
“I will make sure they don’t do even more damage in the name of help.” Jamming his ancient leather cap on his head, Chester marched toward the working men.
Squinting against the rising sun, Sir James folded his arms. “You knew about Elizabeth?”
“I knew some of it.” That situation had almost been forgotten. Henry’s ability to dissemble crumbled. “I know she does not want to marry me. Does not want to marry any man, in truth.”
“Aye.” Sir James shook his head. “Such a willful girl. I kept thinking if I showed enough men to her, one of them would catch her fancy.”
“Huh.” Having grown up at Anglesea, Henry knew a thing or two about willful women. “If it helps, you should know that it would not have worked on my sisters either. When they make up their minds, there is no swaying them.”
“I understand it not.” Scowling, Sir James rubbed his shorn head. “What woman does not want to settle beside a good hearth with her children clustered about her skirts. She is unnatural.”
“She has a vocation.” This world made it impossible for any woman to want anything other than marriage and motherhood. As men, he and Sir James had more choices. Over near the well, Roger and Garrett sat, heads together as they spoke. He guessed this night formed their topic. It was worse for Elizabeth because she was a woman, but they had all been born into their designated places.
Garrett, born a bastard and cast into poverty as a young child, had fought the rigid order his entire life. But even now, people looked at him and saw not a man who had changed his destiny, but saw a man who made them uncomfortable for having moved beyond what they considered right.
Then there was Roger. Born the heir to the mighty Sir Arthur of Anglesea. As the youngest son, Henry, too, had experienced the burden of their father’s greatness. It loomed over their heads constantly. Surely the sons of the great Sir Arthur mirrored his greatness? As heir, Roger had borne the greatest burden. His every action scrutinized and compared to Father. Somehow Roger had made the Anglesea legacy his, and not only that which passed to him. Such deep thoughts as he faced this morning and kept him from dwelling on Alya.
As if it mocked them scrabbling about beneath it, the sun rose over the walls and treated the morning to a glorious roseate splendor.
Sir James cleared his throat. “What will you do?”
“I do not know.” He would need to speak with Roger and Father. What had happened could not go unanswered but none of the options were easy. Then he needed to find a way to make Alya look at him again. If he could get her to meet his eye, he could explain, apologize, grovel, beg if need be, but get his wife back.
“Will you speak of her to others?”
Momentarily lost, Henry stared at Sir James. The man spoke of Elizabeth and not the events of the night. Every person had their own worries, and to them they were the most compelling concerns. “Nay.” The growing morning heat made sweat prickle and itch beneath his hauberk. “If she truly does not wish to marry, why not let her stay here and pursue her healing gift?”
“Eh?” With a grimace, Sir James tugged at his hauberk neck. Chain mail did not make for hours of comfortable wearing. Especially in the heat. “The girl must marry.”
“Why?” Sod it. Bending at the waist, Henry wriggled out of his hauberk. Despite the events of the night, he doubted an archer hid nearby, waiting to put an arrow in him. “Anglesea and you can forge an alliance without marriage being involved. Now that the truth is known, we can use that to form the basis of an agreement.”
With a look of profound relief, Sir James shed his hauberk as well.
Henry waited while the thicker set man wriggled a bit to get it over his head. Hair standing upright, Sir James stood with a big sigh. “This is not the usual way.”
“Nay.” Garrett and Roger could take this conversation from here. “But the usual way has cost you a son, and look what it nearly cost me.” Henry motioned around them. “One thing you will already know about our family is that we rarely do things the usual way.”
* * * *
Alya tried to see Elizab
eth as the woman who had come to steal her husband, but Elizabeth made that impossible. Beyond devoted to the care of Bahir and Newt, she worked tirelessly through what remained of the night. Eventually Alya gave up the battle, for it existed in her head alone, and she did exactly what Elizabeth asked her to do.
Elizabeth’s lovely gown looked ready for the fire, but her beauty remained undimmed. It also became clear as they worked side by side that Elizabeth had no interest in marrying Henry. It might be better for all of them if she did. Although Alya still couldn’t bring herself to wish for that. Hurt, and angry with Henry, she was still not ready to hand him over to another woman.
Which left the question as to what she intended to do with him. As welcome as his rescue had been, a stubborn core within her insisted she would not have been in that situation in the first place were it not for his need to hide her away like the family’s darkest secret. If only things were that simple though, and she could block out all the other things he’d said and done. Things that made her think that despite the last few days, Henry did want her. From here her thinking grew jumbled, colored by the constant nagging dread over Bahir and Newt.
Although Henry had brought her to England, he had done so out of the best motives. Henry had been honoring his vow to her father to protect her, and doing so in the best way he knew possible. That he did not need to marry her also occurred to her. Henry had spread his honor over her like a mantle of protection. Only it had not worked.
“He grows feverish.” Elizabeth rose from where she bent over Newt. “It is as I feared. Lying in the mud and dirt has set up contagion in the wound.”
Her thoughts would wait for when Bahir and Newt were out of danger. And they would be out of danger because she could accept no more loss. Bahir was all she had in the way of family, and Newt was the last tenuous connection between her and Henry. It made no sense, but she felt if Newt died, her connection to Henry would be severed. Already the bond between them stretched to breaking point.
About midmorning, a young man-at-arms brought them a meal and some ale. He told them they were working hard outside to clear the mess away, after which they could properly assess the damage.
Slumped on an upturned bucket, shoveling bread and cheese into her mouth, Elizabeth still managed to look beautiful. Hair had escaped her braid in wisps about her ivory face. Smears of dirt and blood stained her forehead and cheek. Alya was certain her looks had not fared as well.
“Who are they?” Elizabeth motioned Newt and then Bahir. “Why did those men do this to them?”
Elizabeth had labored hard enough to earn a full response. As it was easier, she started with Newt. “I am not sure of all of his history, but he and the Anglesea family go many years back. I believe he first befriended Lady Beatrice. Somehow both Lady Beatrice and Lady Faye ended up owing him a huge debt.”
“He is not a knight?” Elizabeth pushed Newt’s hair from his face and studied it. “He has the fine features of one noble born.”
How Newt would laugh to hear anyone say so, let alone such a lovely, high-born lady. “Nay, he is not entirely sure who his mother was, and has no idea as to his father. Beatrice first discovered him locked in the stocks for theft.”
“He seems to have made his way to better things from there.” Chewing her bread, Elizabeth stared at the sleeping Newt.
“Henry told me he got into some trouble for poaching the king’s deer. He called in the debts ladies Beatrice and Faye owed and ended up as Henry’s squire.”
“He went on pilgrimage with Sir Henry?”
“Aye.” Not out of hunger but out of necessity, Alya forced herself to finish her meal. She would need all her strength in the days to come. “He was the last to see Henry alive before his capture and brought the news home to the family. Afterward he’d begged Roger to send him back, so he could discover what had happened to Henry.”
“He sounds brave.” Elizabeth’s eyes grew misty.
“He is.” If he could see that look Elizabeth bent on him, Newt would be squirming right now. “He is also foul-mouthed, has no sense of decorum, and marches entirely to his own drum. He is very dear to my husband.” She needed to go and tell Henry how Newt fared, but she kept waiting to see if she could carry better news.
“And him.” Elizabeth rose, and pressed her hand into her lower back with a groan. With a damp cloth, she bathed Bahir’s face, the water making his dark skin gleam like onyx.
“He is the closest thing I have to a father.” Alya swallowed past the lump in her throat. “For years, he worked as a slave in our home and my father gave me into his care before I left Cairo.”
“He looks too strong and noble to be a slave.” Her smile soft, Elizabeth pressed a damp cloth to Bahir’s lips.
“I have never known where he came from or how he ended up a slave.” So much of her life shared with Bahir and yet she did not even know who his people had been. “He was put into the harem to guard the women as a young man, which is why he could not have done what they say he did.”
Elizabeth nodded. She had seen for herself the scarring on Bahir. “I shudder to think of how much pain that must have caused him.”
“Aye.” For the first time Alya thought about how much those slavers has cost Bahir. The man she had known and who had shared in the raising of her would have made a wonderful husband and father.
Pushing the thought away, she stood and tidied away the herbs Elizabeth used to make the men more comfortable.
A shadow crossed the door and Henry stepped into the stable. How could she be so angry with him and still her heart skipped a beat when she saw him? “My family is here,” he said. “We need you to come with us.”
Chapter 34
Dressed finer than a queen, and so tired she could barely sit her horse, Alya followed Henry and Lady Mary into the center of the village. Around them, armor jingling, leather creaking, the knights of Anglesea rode. For the occasion, every household knight had been roused and dressed in their honors.
Sir James added his men to the party.
They entered the village like an army prepared for war. Drawing into columns on either side of the roadway, they stood as she, Henry and Lady Mary rode through them to the village green.
From the church scurried the priest, adjusting his robes as he ran.
Lady Mary stopped her horse and sat.
Alya sat beside her.
Henry nudged his horse forward. Closest to him rode the family. Sir Arthur, Roger, William, Garrett, Gregory, all large and imposing men, the threat implicit in their silence.
A mismatched couple of men joined the priest as they walked across the green. From his size and hair color Alya guessed the bigger one to be the blacksmith, Red Alfred. The other man wore the wind-chapped visage and bowlegged strut of one who spent his life on the sea.
“The village elders,” Lady Mary murmured to her. “They know why we are here.”
That made three people who knew more than she did. Lady Mary had summoned her from her nursing duties, and without too much chatter seen her dressed and mounted. All Lady Mary had said was that this ended today, and she would take care of it.
“Sir Henry. My lady.” The priest bowed before them.
The other two tripped over their feet to join him.
“You know why I am here.” Henry’s voice was colder than his blue eyes.
“Aye, my lord,” Alfred said, and shoved the priest forward.
“We are horrified, Sir Henry.” The priest twisted his hands in his robes. “We cannot express how sorry we are that this has happened.”
“You know who did this?”
“Aye.” He glanced at the two men with him. “They do not know how they came to act in this terrible manner.”
“I see.” Henry smoothed the leather of his gloves. “And yet, Father Mark, I find no conciliation in this. I can find no conciliation because three loyal guards are dead and two of my dearest friends, men I regard as family, lie close
to death because of what these fiends did.”
Father Mark winced. “Is it as bad as that?”
“Indeed.” Henry looked over their heads to the villagers clustered on the far side of the green. “I have seen people suffer under the hands of an unjust lord. Indeed, my brother William, had the task of righting what undeserved privilege had wrought on his lands by marriage.”
“God bless Sir William.” Father Mark’s hands shook as he crossed himself.
“I did not know that Anglesea was such a village,” Henry said.
“Eh!” The smith frowned and glanced about him. “We are not…”
Henry stared him down. “And yet you raised your hand to me.”
Gasps and whispers rose from the listening villagers.
“Nay, my lord.” Rulf, a sailor and the third elder, clambered to his feet. “They acted without thought, but never would anyone in this village raise their hand against the Angleseas.”
“But you did.” For all his silk-spoken manner, Henry’s voice carried a wicked sting. As he looked at the villagers, heads dropped, gazes slid to the side. This was Henry the powerful English lord, a side of him Alya did not often see.
“You deliberately sought to hurt and kill a man I regard as family. In your unfounded fury, you caused damage. Three dead, two injured and my home near destroyed,” Henry said. “I am ashamed to claim you as my people.”
Father Mark looked ill. “Do not say so, Sir Henry.”
“How long did it take you to accept Garrett as Lady Beatrice’s choice?” He looked from one villager to another. “And even now there are those amongst you who deny him the respect he so properly deserves.”
Garrett’s horse shifted beneath him.
“I believed in you.” Henry’s voice rose. “I believed in time you would come to love, value and respect him as we do.”
“Lady Beatrice could have married a prince.” A male voice rose from the clustered villagers.
“I see you have something to say, Bardolf.” Sitting straight in the saddle, Lady Mary barely moved her head. “Step out from behind the others and face me instead of hiding like a sniveling coward.”
